Worst Day Ever
by frecleface
Summary: Voldemort's Death Eaters try to come up with a way to cheer him up when he's feeling down. Turns out it only makes his remorse worse. -AVPM, Quirrelmort/Quirrellmort one-shot. Some f-bombs, but nothing severe-


Voldemort was definitely not feeling evil lately. In fact, he was feeling quite down and miserable. And he knew why. Oh, how he knew why. He would never tell anybody about it, of course, but he knew exactly why he had been feeling so empty. He had basically sent the one person in his life that he actually cared about to Azkaban for absolutely no reason. And he missed him so much.

Sighing, Voldemort looked on as his Death Eaters proceeded to whisper to one another in front of him. They were probably planning some evil thing they would then tell him about, but he was in no way in a position to care. At all. He simply could not get Quirrell out of his head, and the remorse was killing him.

Suddenly, one of the Death Eaters cleared their throat, and Voldemort looked up. "Whaaat?" he dragged, not even feeling like talking.

"My Lord, we have noticed how unmotivated you have been feeling lately, and we want to see if we can make you feel any better," the Death Eater replied, for some reason lowering their head as if he was some almighty Lord or someth— Oh, right.

"And what do you propose?" Voldemort asked lamely, although trying desperately to keep his intimidating, formal manner in front of his followers.

"We propose that we torture or kill Azkaban prisoners that have been sentenced to a dementor's kiss," the Death Eater continued. "We thought that watching us do that may inspire you to keep on with your evil deeds, my Lord."

Voldemort put a hand to his chin in thought. The offer was definitely tempting, even though it would have been much better if he would be the one to do the torturing. Still, the Death Eater had a point. He had been pretty much completely unmotivated to do anything lately, so maybe they were right. Maybe watching some mindless torture would make him feel a little better. He stood up (making all the other Death Eaters do the same) and slammed his hand on the table in front of him.

"Alright, is it decided, then," he said, trying to sound at least a little bit threatening. "We shall be escorted into Azkaban and find prisoners who are sentenced to a dementor's kiss. Give them a little taste of what it feels to _really_ get hurt." He grinned at his own words. That was good!

The Death Eaters all cheered and started laughing evilly, but Voldemort didn't feel like joining them. All he had to do now was wait until they actually got into the prison so his followers could start torturing. Maybe, just maybe, it would make him feel less empty inside.

As it turned out, the torturing really did make Voldemort feel slightly better. He was even able to laugh at some of the prisoners' pain. The way his Death Eaters handled the torture was very inspiring, and their heartless laughter at the prisoners made him feel like maybe he could actually act evil again.

Still, no matter how many agonizing curses he saw, there was still that gnawing feeling that since he was here, he should break Quirrell out somehow. If only to just apologize. He really didn't deserve to be in here. Was he even alive? Voldemort shuddered at the thought and mentally slapped himself for bringing it up in the first place. Quirrell was alive. He _had_ to be.

Trying to get his mind off Quirrell for just a couple of seconds, Voldemort watched as one of the prisoners' limbs bent in all sorts of directions they shouldn't bend. Their screams of pain were somewhat soothing, and he wondered just how many of these he would have to watch until he would feel like being evil again.

One by one, the prisoners came into the chamber the dementors had assigned for this little 'mission'. One by one they fell down, bent, broke, bruised, and bled until there was hardly any life left in them. All of them dirty, their flesh rotten, their hair falling out, their skin pale white, and all of them wearing the same damn striped cloth. So pathetic.

All of a sudden, Voldemort heard the dementors keeping an eye on the prisoners shriek, and the room instantly got much colder than it already was. Voldemort raised a hand in order for them to shut up, which they did, and then made them move away from the next prisoner.

Without words, he asked the dementors what that had all been about. In a somewhat worried tone (everybody and everything was afraid of him anyway) one of the dementors said – well, shrieked – that this particular prisoner was not sentenced for a kiss, but simply wanted to be maimed or seriously injured, even die. He had apparently lost all will to live anyway.

"Bring him in," Voldemort said, in a way admiring the prisoner for stepping forward like that. Normally, people tried to stay away from torture, but this guy was apparently ready to die a slow painful death. What cowardice.

As soon as Voldemort had uttered the words, the prisoner was brought into the chamber. Voldemort couldn't see his face (not that he would want to anyway), but the man's brown hair definitely had some gray spots in it. He looked frail and weak, and could barely stand on his bony legs. Not really caring about what would happen, Voldemort signaled his Death Eaters to start torturing him.

Instantly, one stepped forward and threw a curse at the prisoner, and he started twisting in the air so violently that Voldemort was waiting for his spine to break. The prisoner's limbs stared bending and twisting as well, along with his neck. To Voldemort's surprise, though, not a sound came from the man's mouth.

Because the screaming was what Voldemort found the most enjoyable about the torturing, he edged another Death Eater to the floor to do more damage. The twister backed off, dropping the prisoner to the floor with a loud thud that had probably broken a bone. A second Death Eater came into view, and they had their way with the prisoner as well. This one, however, used a more direct approach, and simply started throwing burning curses at him. They all hit so hard that it looked like the man was being punched repeatedly. He still didn't make a sound. There were sobs here and there, but no screams. Voldemort was growing impatient with this one, and urged more Death Eaters to join in. Surely _that_ would make him scream!

Three more Death Eaters started torturing the man, the twister included. The prisoner was now floating in the air, his limbs twisted, his skin ripped, shredded, and burnt, and his blood gushing everywhere. Voldemort tapped his fingertips, annoyed by the how ready this man was to die.

Then, it happened. As one of the Death Eaters started using a curse that cut his flesh open like he was being cut with knives, the prisoner finally screamed in agony. Voldemort closed his eyes in satisfaction and smirked. _Finally_. This one had fought valiantly, though. Still, there was something odd about that scream, that voice. It was as if Voldemort had heard it somewhere before…

His eyes shot open as he made the horrible realization. "ENOUGH!" he hollered. He raised his wand and swung it around, throwing all the Death Eaters backwards and right into the nearest walls.

Without thinking, he rushed towards the now downed prisoner, wand still in hand. When the dementors were about to approach him, he pointed it at them, threatening them without words that he would destroy them all right there right now if they dared to come closer. As expected, they backed off, and Voldemort was free to attend to the prisoner. He put his arm under his shoulders and pulled him upwards, just so he could see his face.

The moment Voldemort saw just who the prisoner was, he disapparated. Thinking of a very secure location, he held the man tight and hoped that they would end up somewhere safe. Somewhere no one would see them. To his surprise, the two of them landed on a shore of a dark beach. Voldemort had a good look around. Was this muggle territory? There were no lights, no sounds, and no signs of movement anywhere. Voldemort decided this was a safe spot.

He looked back at the prisoner in his arms. His maimed face and severely injured body made his insides sting all over. He couldn't bear to look at Quirrell this way. It was too much. He was barely even recognizable, both due to being in Azkaban, and to the torture. Voldemort wanted to kill himself for actually having allowed all of this to happen.

He couldn't take it anymore. His eyes stung and his body was starting to limp down. He pulled Quirrell's horrible-looking body closer to him and dug his face into his now bloody and bony chest. There was nothing left to do but cry. No way in hell would anybody see him do this, but he couldn't hold it back any longer. Nuzzling his face on Quirrell's chest and tightening his grasp on him, Voldemort sobbed until it was hard for him to breathe. His tears soaked Quirrell's prison gown even more than it already was, but he didn't care.

"I- I'm sorry!" he wailed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I am so fucking sorry!" It was all that came out of his mouth. He could practically feel his intestines plummeting as he kept crying those same words. Nothing mattered anymore. Keeping his face on Quirrell's chest, Voldemort kept trying to find a heartbeat somewhere. He didn't succeed.

"I'm so sorry…" he finally whispered as he loosened his grip on Quirrell. He was definitely dead. Well, dead or dying. Either way, there was no chance that he would survive all the crap he had just gone through. Voldemort kept his face where it was, still bawling like a small child. He didn't care, though. Nothing mattered.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated once more before deciding that if by chance Quirrell still had a flicker of life left in him, he should know. "I can't- I can't let you go. I love you." Those were three words Voldemort had since long ago agreed never to use. Love and any other emotions were for the weak. But it didn't matter now. Everything had gone to shit anyway. "I love you, Quirrell. I love you so much. And you'll never fucking know it because I just killed you!" He let out a couple of sobs before realizing that he simply could not let go of Quirrell, tightening his grip once more and digging his face into his chest. "I love you. I love you. I love you…" he kept whispering to no one. Quirrell was probably dead by now. And it was all his fault.

_Ba-DUMP._

Voldy's eyes shot open for the second time that night. Was that what he thought it was? He pressed his ear against Quirrell's chest and squinted. Oh please let it be real.

_Ba-DUMP._

It was real. Quirrell's heart was still beating. Voldemort looked up and, through his tear-soaked eyes, saw that he was starting to breathe. It was slow and somewhat raunchy, but he was breathing. Then, as if by a miracle, Voldemort could feel a bony hand touch his back. He couldn't believe it.

"V… vah… Vold- uh- morr…" he heard Quirrell try to say.

Voldemort's internal pain vanished completely. Quirrell was alive. Quirrell. Was. Alive. Without knowing what to do, Voldemort embraced him even tighter (though careful not to harm anything) and couldn't help crying even more. His cries were so loud now, but he didn't care in the slightest. They were happy tears anyway. Because Quirrell was alive. Barely, but alive.

Sniffling loudly, Voldemort could only think of one thing to say with his now shaking voice. "Shut the fuck up, Quirrell. I gotta fix you." And with that, he disapparated once more.

For some reason, Voldemort's wand couldn't properly clean all of Quirrell's wounds, so he had had to settle with the old-fashioned muggle way of doing it. It disgusted him to no end, but hey. This was Quirrell. It was worth it. The moist cloth Voldemort was using somehow managed to absorb more of the blood than his wand had. Weird.

Voldemort had taken Quirrell's prison gown off, since it was already bloodstained and ripped anyway, and Quirrell was now lying peacefully in his bed. Voldemort had wrapped some of his bigger wounds in cloths to keep them from getting infected or bleeding out. He applied some more moisture on the cloth he was holding and started stroking Quirrell's face with it.

Dear wizard god, how did Quirrell have such a beautiful face? Even when he was beaten up and bony, Quirrell was still the most gorgeous human being Voldemort had ever seen. Just seeing him lie there unconscious was enough to make Voldemort's emotions act up like crazy. He felt remorse, sadness, care, but most of all, love. Yes, despite everything, Voldemort, The Dark Lord of all evil, felt love. Smiling, he put the cloth down and brushed some of Quirrell's bloody hair from his eyes.

"You're so beautiful," he couldn't help but mutter as he let his hand brush Quirrell's cheek. "I'm sorry I sent you there in the first place, man. You don't deserve all the shit I put you through."

Voldemort rubbed his now glossy eyes with his other hand and sniffled. No way, no how, was he going to cry again. Still, tears shed for Quirrell weren't shed in vain, so it was all good.

"Did I mention that I love you? Because I do." Voldemort kept talking. Just sitting there next to Quirrell and talking to him like he was awake was very calming. Not to mention, he got to be so close to him.

Having sat there for a couple of moments with his hand on Quirrell's cheek, still admiring his beauty, Voldemort started to see some movement in Quirrell's face. Was he waking up? Voldemort felt his stomach jump at seeing this. Quirrell just squinted and groaned weakly. He then started moving his hand towards his face, and then brushed his fingertips against the back of Voldemort's hand. Seemingly without knowing what it was, Quirrell grabbed it loosely. Then, to Voldemort's upmost delight, he slowly opened his eyes.

They were hollow and distant, but Voldemort definitely saw a little sparkle in Quirrell's eyes that he knew from before. He smiled sweetly at him, and was very glad to see Quirrell smile back.

"Hey," Quirrell whispered, still smiling, still holding Voldemort's hand.

That one word made Voldemort's waterworks start once again, and he bit his lip to hold them back for a little while longer. "Hey, you," he said, feeling his voice crack already.

Quirrell kept smiling and looking at Voldemort with his hollow yet lively eyes. "Did you mean it?" he asked out of the blue.

Knowing exactly what he was talking about, Voldemort swallowed and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I did. Every word. I'm so sorry for sending you to that shithole." He couldn't fight back anymore. The tears started flowing, and the sobs were breaking out.

"Oh, please don't… don't cry," Quirrell whispered in the sweetest manner possible for a man who could barely keep his eyes open.

Sobbing loudly, Voldemort squeezed Quirrell's hand tighter. "I can't help it," he cried and then sniffled. "I am so fucking sorry, Quirrell. For everything."

"Hey, I'm here now," Quirrell said, squeezing Voldemort's hand back (though it was still very weak). "It's over."

"But you were ready to _die_!" Voldy howled and dug his face in his free hand. "And I almost got you killed."

"But you didn't. You saved me," Quirrell said and smiled. He paused to take a short breath, and then looked back at Voldemort, his eyes now fully alive as well. "And you said you loved me."

Voldemort felt his stomach jump, and he looked intensely into Quirrell's blue eyes. "Oh. You heard that?"

"Of course I did," Quirrell said and let out a small chuckle. "You know, I've been thinking about you ever since I got locked up."

"Me too," Voldemort said, his tear-soaked eyes making his vision misty. "All the time. I missed you like hell."

"So did I," Quirrell replied. He paused again, only this time, it looked like he was hesitant about something. Voldemort decided to wait patiently while he prepared for whatever it was he was going to say. Then, Quirrell turned his face, and actually _kissed_ Voldemort's hand, sending shivers down his spine. "Did you really mean it?"

At first, Voldemort was going to say that he had already told Quirrell he was so sorry it physically hurt. But then he put it together, and realized what he was talking about. He grinned, and in a similar fashion, lifted Quirrell's hand to his lips and kissed it. "I meant it."

Quirrell blushed slightly, and giggled. "It's silly. The Dark Lord actually having feelings for someone."

"Oh, don't give me that," Voldemort said and chuckled as well. "You know you're the only exception," he added and kissed Quirrell's hand again.

"Wow. To think, earlier tonight I just wanted to die," Quirrell said, blushing deeper. "Now look at me. My only dream is coming true."

"And what would that be?" Voldemort teased. He sort of had an idea, but he wanted to hear Quirrell say it anyway.

"That you love me," Quirrell replied, "because now I don't feel as stupid for having feelings for you first."

Voldemort's stomach jumped yet again. Was he hearing the truth? "You… You have feelings for me?"

"Yeah. Ever since we really hit it off that night at the Hog's Head," Quirrell replied. "And it's pretty much been building up since then, and now I'm totally crazy about you." He smiled again, and then retracted his hand from Voldemort's to bite his fist.

As horrible as this night had been just a few hours before, Voldemort now felt like he could just leap out of his body and do backflips. "How are you so adorable?" he said and chuckled. Quirrell giggled as well, but then winced like he was in pain. Voldemort immediately sprung upwards to see if he was okay. "Dude, you've gotta sleep or something. At least stop talking, I don't think it's doing you any good."

Quirrell rolled his eyes at how all-knowing Voldemort sounded, and closed his eyes. "Fine, I'll get some rest. But only on two conditions."

Voldemort cocked an eyebrow at Quirrell and folded his arms. "What do you want?"

"First, I want you to get me something for my bones and muscles. They're _killing_ me," Quirrell replied, and then grinned smugly. "Second, I want you to kiss me."

"Wait- what?" Voldemort said, his intestines jumping once more, and his face feeling much hotter. "That's a bit forward, don'cha think?"

"Voldemort. _Man_. Listen," Quirrell said playfully, almost making Voldemort laugh at how good he was a mimicking him. "If the fact that we basically told each other that we're in love with one another doesn't guarantee a kiss, I don't know what does. Come on, I'm the romance expert, I know how it all goes."

Sighing, "you're insane, Quirrell, you know that?" Voldemort said as he started somewhat reluctantly leaning in.

"I know. Insanely in love," Quirrell replied, trying to sound really cheesy on purpose.

Voldemort inched closer and closer to Quirrell's face until he could hardly tell there was a distance between them. When he could practically feel Quirrell's breath on his lips, he couldn't take it any longer and just went all in. He felt Quirrell breathe sharply through his nose, as if he was in shock that this was really happening. Voldemort couldn't blame him. That's how he felt too.

Quirrell was seriously injured and could barely move, and still kissing him was like nothing Voldemort could have ever imagined. His soft, warm lips fit perfectly with his slightly cool ones, and the tickly feeling when they touched drove Voldemort crazy. Quirrell was so perfect, he couldn't even describe it, and kissing him was like having no care in the world. He felt so light and fluttery that he simply didn't want to break the kiss. He had to eventually, though, and when he did, Quirrell let out a pleased sigh.

"I love you," he said, wearing the biggest grin Voldemort had ever seen.

Voldemort let out a small laugh. "I love you too, Quirrell. Now will you get some sleep?"

"Sure. Just get me the bone and muscle thing tomorrow," Quirrell said sleepily. "I think I'm good for now."

"Good," Voldemort said. "Look, I'm gonna sleep on this chair, alright? I wish I could sleep next to you, but I don't think it'd be good for you after the torture treatment."

"Fine, I'll just imagine I'm cuddling with you, then," Quirrell said and grinned.

"Go to _sleep_, Quirrell," Voldemort semi-ordered, to which Quirrell let out a little laugh. Voldemort then leaned back on the chair he was sitting on and closed his eyes.

Who would have thought in the end, this horrible, horrible day would end up having the best night Voldemort's entire life? Screw taking over the world, and screw killing Harry Potter. Quirrell was what he really wanted, and now that he had him, he didn't want to let him go ever again.

"I love you," he whispered silently into the air, not really expecting Quirrell to hear it.

After a couple of seconds of silence, he heard a weak reply.

"I love you too."


End file.
